This is it, the apocalypse, whoa!
by SplatDragon
Summary: Okay, so being sent into a video game, turned into a dog? Yeah, that's kind of weird. Thankfully, the epilogue was pretty easy. So long as she didn't get killed, it all just moved along on its own. John was the driving force, and Sadie too. Soon, though, the first game will start, and she's doing whatever she can to prevent it. How could she have known Undead Nightmare was canon?
1. Can't Believe The State You're In

**Hey so I dunno what this is**

**but I loved Undead Nightmare and I love Ginny and thought why not? This is not an official Silent Savior fic, and it will have no effect on the other stories in the series.**

I am old, now.

My bones creak, and my joints ache. I hop more than I run, and I don't do much of that anymore. My days of chasing deer and cats, of herding cattle, ended a long time ago.

Every time I see my reflection, it seems, more and more grey has streaked my face. Getting to my feet is a struggle, and even Uncle helps me up the stairs sometimes. Abigail even lets me up on the couch, now, even helps me up.

I don't hear so well anymore. My left back leg went lame in the hip a few months ago, and the sight in my right eye is going.

But I still keep Rufus in line, he still knows to listen to me. Even if my teeth are too dull to really bite him, and I can't throw him to the ground like I used to. When I'm gone, he'll be well capable of taking care of them.

I've been with them for four years.

They've been some of the best years of my life. I've watched John grow into a responsible, if hot tempered, man, watched Jack grow into a teenager. He's not my little Jackie anymore, and I feel bad for my parents if I gave them half the trouble he does.

But I've been with them for four years. I came here early in 1907, and it's late in 1911. If I'd been a smaller dog, I wouldn't have been able to help half so much. But four years wouldn't have aged me so much.

And as 1911 nears its end, I know I need to be more vigilant than ever. It's never said how the Pinkertons got ahold of Jack and Abigail, but I can guess. When John leaves the ranch, I don't go with him. When Uncle leaves, I don't go with him, either. I go with Abigail and Jack, clamber into the wagon and watch and listen as best I can, do my best to guard them.

And around the ranch, I've taken up rounds. I bug them until someone lets me out, then pace slowly around the ranch for as long as I can. My hearing is going, and I fear not hearing them until they're on top of us. But my hips are weak, and I can't walk for long, so when my legs begin to buckle I make my way to the tree and lay down, bask in the sun as it warms my bones.

I don't let myself sleep. I can't hear the people riding by on the roads, so I have to keep watch. Look out for the Pinkertons, wait for them to get close and warn them. I don't bark much anymore, never really did, so I know it'll make them coming running, guns drawn.

I'd helped them, when I was younger. Helped John build Beecher's Hope, helped him win Abigail back. Had helped track down Micah with Charles and Sadie, and had watched as he and Abigail married.

But there was nothing I could do to stop him from catching the Pinkertons' eye. He'd used his real name on the loan, had gone on a rampage against Bell's Gang, had killed a Pinkerton informant. His path had been set in stone the moment he took the loan.

So all I could do was try and cut things off at the root, keep the Pinkertons from kidnapping Abigail and Jack.


	2. Something evil's lurking in the dark

I've learned to trust my instincts.

And something is very, _very, _wrong.

My bones itch more than they ache, and my blood boils more than it has in a long time. Not for the first time, I heave myself to my paws with a groan, and take to pacing again.

Is tonight the night? Are the Pinkertons coming?

But it's storming outside, odd rumblings that rattle my bones, sheets of rain that hit the roof hard enough to be loud enough even to my ears, and I'm sure they're not that foolish.

I walk from one end of the room to the other, grumbling in discontent, my hips aching even as I keep my lame leg off the ground. "Gin, girl, c'mere," Abigail beckons, stooping down and sloshing around the bowl of stew she'd put down for me that morning. It's little more than broth, the meat so cooked through that it's all-but liquid so I can eat it with my dulled and missing teeth, but like this morning it fails to draw my interest. Unease curdles my stomach, tears away any appetite I had. Something's wrong, and I won't be settled until I know what it is.

"Crazy dog," she grumbles, and returns to her sewing, but her scent has soured some with concern.

God, I hurt, and for a moment I lay down, trying to take some of the weight off of my joints, but agitation has me on my paws in moments. Thunder cracks, and I can feel it in my bones, which ache and throb, and I can't help but to whine, hobbling back and forth, back and forth.

Oh, I wish John and Uncle were here. They'd left earlier in the day, and weren't back yet. Something was going to happen, I could feel it deep in my bones, and the fact that they weren't home made my fur stand on end.

"What's wrong with Gin?"

Oh, at least Jack is here.

The boy frowns at me, shifting his book to hold it with his hand, scratching between my ears before moving to slouch down on the couch. This is so familiar, and something tugs at the back of my mind—I should _know this_. I shake my head irritatedly; normally I'd do anything for a bit of affection, but I didn't want to be distracted.

"Dunno," Abigail says, focusing on her sewing, "she's been like this all day. Maybe it's the storm?"

I scoff at the thought—as if a storm could scare me! I don't like thunder, sure, but I'm not scared of a little storm.

This, though, doesn't feel like a normal storm. It's been pouring all day, and the thunder is all around odd, doesn't sound right even to my ears, and the lightning doesn't look right through the windows.

"A little storms never bothered her before," Jack frowns, flipping open his book and beginning to read."

The living room goes quiet, broken only by Abigail's murmuring, the clicking of her needles and the creak of the pages of Jack's book as he flips them, engrossed in… whatever it is he's reading.

God, do I miss reading. Sometimes he reads aloud to me, but not nearly as much as he used to, and I miss it.

My ears prick and, although my hearing isn't what it used to be, it's still good enough to pick up the sounds of hoofbeats outside, with rattling wagon wheels behind it. I hope it's John, and it _should _be him, but it could be anyone, even the Pinkertons, and with how today feels I'm not risking it, so I stumble myself over to the window, feeling sorry for myself as I wobble up onto the windowsill, struggling to balance on a leg and a half, squinting out into the storm, idly listening to Jack and Abigail's conversation.

Oh, I know those horses! That paint, Jack called her Beatrix, an author he liked, and that appaloosa, John had called her Splatter, and they made an odd pair but worked well together. And yes! There was John clambering out of the wagon, but—where was Uncle?

And _why was this so familiar!?_

Reassured that it was just John, I drop from the windowsill with a groan, glad to take the weight off of my hips. Still, though, agitation rolls in my gut, and I can't help but to pace, and pace, starting to frog hop, drawing my hindlegs together and stepping with them both at the same time; it hurts less.

'_Oh, John'll kill you for that,'_ I snort as Jack kicked his feet onto the couch, shoes and all. But Abigail saves him from a hiding, chastising him into putting his feet back down right before John steps inside. I wag my tail at him, and then wag it even harder when he agrees "Something funny's going on out there,"

"_Thank you!"_ I whuff, "_Finally, someone with some sense!"_ and then I realize I'd said that John had sense, and wonder if I'd lost my mind. He reaches down to pet me, "Hey Gin," stroking his hand down my spine and then between my hips,

I squeal, sharp pain shooting through them, and they buckle, sending me crashing to the ground. It's humiliating, and even as he says "Oh _shit_, ("Father!" "Is she alright?") sorry Gin," bringing his hands under me to scoop me back onto me feet, I hide my face in my paws.

I wobble on my paws, my hips feeling weak, praying that they don't give out on me again, that I can last through the end of the year, take a step and decide to lie down when they ache, hiding my muzzle between my forelegs. I still want to pace, and pace, and pace, but my hips won't allow it.

"Damn Rufus's gone crazy, wolves howlin' and birds flyin'," John grumbles, scratching that spot behind my ear apologetically before walking up behind Abigail, who dismisses it as 'just the storm, John,' again.

"Uncle make it back yet?" he asks, and I groan, knowing that it's _not just the storm, dammit!_ and, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, wishing that I could speak.

She shoves him away, and I pant a laugh at the wounded expression on his face, although her words sober me up. "I thought he was you, off drinking in the fields," I'd been dozing when they'd left, so hadn't known where they'd gone, and something about it strikes me wrong, "I mean working, as you call it now."

There's a funny noise outside, and I raise my head from my paws, looking at the window. Something moves, but the storm is pelting down so hard I can't see anything, now, the rain so heavy it's just a curtain of grey. It's there and gone so fast, though, that maybe I imagined it?

"No, he went into town a few hours ago, after we busted that hammer workin' in the meadow." John's kneeling, tossing wood into the fireplace, from the sound of it, but my attention is still held by the window. What had that been?

I startled, yelping when something wraps around me, only to look up and see John carefully scooping me up. Abigail makes a joke about Uncle waiting out the storm in a whorehouse as he sets me down by the fireplace, and I stretch out with a groan, laying so I can stare out the window, basking in the heat, feeling the warmth soak into my bones.

There's that sound again!

I jolt my head up, barely hearing John agree with me in a round about way, squinting: what _is_ that? There's something resting on the window, brown-greyish, there and gone, and if I didn't know that there wasn't a tree there I would have thought it was a tree branch.

There's movement in the corner of my eye and I jump, flinching, turning only to see Abigail standing. I snort, sniffing the air, but the building was, admittedly, well built and well-insulated and so the only smell is John, filthy and reeking of horse-sweat, and the offness of whatever Abigail has been cooking all day.

She walks away to work on cooking it, and John slumps down into her chair, while Jack remains absorbed in his book. I pay half an ears worth of attention as I stare at the window, trying to figure out what I had seen before, my fur standing on end. Something is very, _very_ wrong, and how only John can feel it is baffling.

"What you reading?" John asks, and I fight down a groan. Bless his heart, but he can't bond with Jack to save his life. Bless him, but he _is _trying.

"Just some book about monsters," Jack grunts, and I frown, feeling as though I'd heard this conversation before.

There's an awkward silence, long enough that I turn my ears back to the window, slowly and carefully stretching out onto my side, keeping as much of my weight off of my bad hip as I can, until John finally says, "Tell me about it," and I grin, "_Good job John! That's how you dad!"_ He was actually showing interest in what Jack was doing!

"It's kind of dumb," Jack grunts, and I groan, "_Come on Jack, he's giving you an olive branch! Stop being such a teenager!"_

And, holy shit, John actually makes a joke back at him, "Well that should suit me just fine," and I can't help but to laugh, huffing loudly.

"Well, it's all about in ancient times how Aztec warriors worshiped the sun but, during full moons, some of them worshiped the moon instead."

My brain stuttered to a stop. Hold on, freeze frame, pause the movie. Did he just say _Aztec warriors_?

Oh, oh no. Now I know where I've heard this conversation before ("_and upset the equilibrium of things."_) There's no way, absolutely no way at all. I'll accept being turned into a dog. I'll accept time traveling. I'll even accept falling into a different dimension.

But zombies, no, zombies are too far! There are no such things as zombies, and there is no way I am in Undead Nightmare!

No way, no how, never ever. I refuse to accept it. I am weak, and I am old, and I can't even protect myself from an angry bunny.

What will I do if there are _zombies_ of all things shambling around? In a world where there is no respawning, only horrifically final Game Overs?


	3. Horror looks in your eyes, paralyzed

The evening passed by uneventfully.

I was still on edge, and no matter how hard I tried, the sight of that grey whatever-it-was wouldn't leave my mind. It could have been a twig, or even a bird that had tricked my failing eyes.

And yet, something about it felt wrong. John and Jack's conversation… it just had to be coincidence, it just _had_ to be, but at the beginning of the game—well, it had been such a long time, but I had a vague, vague memory of something grey pressing against a window.

But Undead Nightmare _couldn't_ be real, because I had been sent here to protect them, and how could I protect them from _zombies_ of all things?

So, in spite of my churning stomach, I ate the chicken Abigail had made for me, pulled apart and stewed for so long that it fell apart disappointingly on my tongue, lapping up the broth in the bowl. Abigail was painfully insistent that I finish the whole thing, grumbling at me to the point that John teased her "Why don't you feed me like that?"

"Lose your teeth and I just might!" she had barked, although with very little bite, and I'd snorted so hard that, if the chicken were any firmer, I'd have choked. But by then I was so sleepy that I'd licked her offered fingers clean, before dropping my head to the carpet in front of the fire, despite my misgivings about what might happen in the night.

She must have put something in the broth, that must have been why she was so insistent I eat and drink it all, as I slept through the door slamming open, the shuffling of dragged feet on the floor, the scent of rot and blood, and rasping, groaned breaths. I slept through raised voices and the sound of shattering glass, the thump of a body hitting the ground and the rapid pattering of bare feet on wood.

It took Abigail screaming bloody murder to get me on my feet. I was on my paws before I was even awake, fur standing on end and teeth bared, snarling with a ferocity I'd lost years ago. I swayed on my paws, still groggy and bleary from whatever she'd slipped me, blinking, barely taking in what was happening and—

Oh, _god_.

Abigail was being chased by Uncle, but he could only be barely called that. His mouth was surrounded by blood, his facial hair stained with it. His skin was grey-green, like so many corpses I'd had the misfortune of coming across, lips peeled back in a snarl no human had a right to make, teeth more yellowed than they'd been before.

I'd never forgive myself, but I froze, my paws stuck to the ground as though with glue, snarl dying in my chest, fur flattening against my body, huddling in on myself until my stomach touched the rug.

It was only when there was a loud gunshot, and poor, dumb Jack ran passed me, that I shook myself out of my stupor and began to move. Feeling much, much younger, my aches and pains forgotten, I straightened up and bolted after him, trying to stop him, not sure why, desperately straining my memory, but I hadn't played Undead Nightmare in years even before being brought here that what I did remember was so, so foggy.

"Good lord! What's happened? Momma?"

I stopped on the stoop, perking my ears and staring. The immediate danger or, at least, looking at Abigail, writhing on the ground, the danger that I could help with, lay dead, truly dead, on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

Jack, though, was kneeling next to the other. Oh, shit.

"_Jack, don't!"_ I barked, and leaped down the stairs. My leg buckled, pain flaring through my hip, but I didn't let it stop me, lurching forward as fast as I could, but too late, Abigail was grabbing him by his union suit, sinking her teeth into his neck. I set my teeth into the back of his pajamas, pulling, and he fell back, curling in on himself, hand around his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

And, _oh_, he reeked! Not as strong as Uncle had, still did, actually, and not half so much as Abigail, but it was rapidly growing stronger. John was saying something, but I didn't listen, stumbling back, baring my teeth and flattening my ears. I didn't want to, they were my family in all-but blood, but they smelled so _wrong_, so dangerous, like a cougar or a bear but far, far worse, and I wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. But I couldn't just leave John to deal with this, so I dug in my paws and stood vigil as Jack, too, turned while John went to get his lasso, and the pair of them began to stand.

"_Uh, John?" _I barked, backing up as they began to stagger towards me, groaning. "_We kind of have a problem?"_

He was hurrying out of the barn, but—okay, yeah, gotta go. Jack was lunging for me, smaller and faster than his mother, and my hip wouldn't let me whirl around, so I bolted forward instead, nearly knocking him over as he wobbled, trying to follow me. I barked, as loud and fast as I could, trying to do… well, I don't know what. Keep their attention? Get John's attention? For no reason other than out of panic?

Either way, I barked, and ran in circles around them, not wanting to lead them anywhere, but not wanting to get grabbed, either. Finally, though, a lasso came from seemingly out of nowhere, cinching around Abigail's ankles and bringing her to the ground with an audible crunch. Oh, Abigail was going to _kill_ John for breaking her nose!

John was distracted by hog-tying Abigail, so it was up to me to keep Jack distracted. I kept running circles, hoping he would hurry up because wow was this starting to hurt, only to realize suddenly that oh god Jack had moved and, looking at John, was getting close to him. John hadn't noticed him, yet, busy trying to bind Abigail's hands without getting bit so, knowing that I'd regret it later, I ran as fast as I could and leaped, slamming into Jack's side and taking him to the ground.

Pain exploded through my body.

Distantly, as though from far away, I heard John shout.

I blinked, blearily able to see him pinning Jack down, struggling to get him tied up.

Oh, oh, that had been a mistake. My everything, my poor everything.

John picked up Jack carefully, holding his head away from him, hair knotted in his hand to keep his face turned away him vanishing inside. I groaned, turning to stare at Abigail, making sure that she wasn't freeing herself, but she was only thrashing ineffectively.

By the time he'd come back for Jack, I'd managed to rise to a sit, head dangling, trembling at the throbbing in my joints. All that running had come back to haunt me as the adrenaline left my blood, my hip stabbing sharply with each breath.

If Abigail freed herself, I wouldn't be able to do anything but bark.

"_John,"_ I whined, "_hurry it up,"_

And, thankfully, he did. Grabbed Abigail up carefully, but faster than Jack, having learned from carrying his son, and vanished into the house. Came back out not long after, and dragged Uncle off in front of the barn, scowling, before walking back to me.

"Good dog, Gin," he gave me a strained grin, scratching behind my ears. I groaned, but thumped my tail against the groaned, "That was incredible, girl." although his voice was serious as, well, a zombie attack when he said, "_never_ attack Jack again."

"_Well,"_ I huffed, "_I'll just let you be bit next time, I'm sure I can put the mask back on my own."_

He stooped down, wrapping his arms around me as carefully as he could, but still pain shot through me and I groaned as he picked me up, carrying me inside to sit me down in front of the fire. I could hear Jack and Abigail moaning and groaning and snarling and thumping from his and Abigail's room and, even as he pressed carefully along my ribs, my hips (I yelped) and my legs, I kept my ears focused on them, wishing I could have stopped it, hating myself for freezing.

I'd known it would happen, but my denial had kept me from doing anything.

Then and there, I swore that no one would get hurt under my watch again.

No matter what happened to me in return.


End file.
